


wild on you (like the color blue)

by backfire



Series: your wonder (under summer skies) [1]
Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beach City, F/M, Ice Cream Parlors, Summer Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfire/pseuds/backfire
Summary: Harry's even harder to ignore now, when he's like this: all shirtless and golden with wet, messy hair, against the blue sky and the blue sea—inherelement.
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Series: your wonder (under summer skies) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898875
Comments: 15
Kudos: 103





	wild on you (like the color blue)

**Author's Note:**

> behold, my summer hallie manifesto. this is absolutely the most self indulgent thing i have ever written.
> 
> featuring: actual mermaid allie pressman, becca and sam being Comrades, asshole harry, quintessential summer beverages and snacks, allie pretty much dates the ocean, overuse of the word "salty"

Allie is blinking saltwater from her eyes when she realizes she’s going to be late.

Shit. She’s lost track of time again. It’s so easy to do out here, when she’s floating on her back, being carried up and down and up again by the waves. At this time of the day during the low tide, she can float without having to worry about tumbling over, though every so often she has to dip herself underwater when a big one comes rolling in to avoid being tossed around.

The sky is turning from pale pink into a deeper purple and the air is getting to be cooler than the water, which is how she can tell that she’s been out here too long. She curses under her breath and rights herself, treading water before dunking under and getting as far as she can swimming before it becomes too shallow for that.

She gives herself the quickest of rinses from the public shower at foot of the stairs leading back up to the boardwalk, pulls a pair of denim shorts and her uniform t-shirt over her bikini and shoves her Old Navy flip flops on. Shit, she forgot real shoes again, too. Her feet are going to be freezing.

There’s nothing that she can really do about her hair other than wring it out as best she can as she hurries along the boardwalk, pull it into a ponytail that will be an absolute bitch to take out once she gets home if it dries and crusts over like this, saturated with sand and saltwater. Helena hates it when she drips everywhere, creating slipping hazards, getting the ocean into people’s ice cream. “People like salted caramel,” Allie had quipped once, but Helena didn’t think it was funny.

“You’re late,” Helena says disapprovingly once she lets herself in through the back entrance, past the walk-in freezer.

“Just by a minute,” Allie says. She booked it on the way here and she’s out of breath, her skin feeling especially gross now that it’s coated with an additional layer of sweat on top of all the dried seawater.

Helena thins her lips into a line, and she also looks down to judge Allie’s choice of footwear. “Fine. Just go tell Grizz he can leave.”

She’s in a bad mood today. That doesn’t bode well for what’s already shaping up to be a long night ahead, and Allie wonders if maybe she and Luke got into a fight or something.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says to Grizz when she gets out front, touching a hand to his back to let him know she’s there. “Lost track of time out there, you know?”

“No sweat,” Grizz says. He’s always been nice to her, plus he gets it—Allie’s seen the way he’s anxious to get out of here when he has the morning shift, probably itching to catch the choice waves up on the north ridge, past the barrier. “Good luck, though. Saw your schedule for the week, nights all the way down. That can’t be easy.”

Allie shrugs. She doesn’t mind, only because it gives her time during the day to get in the water. “Go on, get out of here before the horde comes in,” she says, nudging him. He laughs, gives her a salute, and retreats into the back room. 

Nights at the parlor are, for whatever reason, the busiest time. People flock from all over, probably drawn by the vintage charm, the place decked out like an old 50’s diner, and the neon sign overhead displaying “Boardwalk Ice Cream” like a beacon in the night. It’s an outdoor seating only type place, like a roadside stand, with a tiny, glass-enclosed entrance where customers can come in and place their orders and go. The lines are out the door and around the building when the after-dinner rush comes, and Allie slings more soft serve cones than she can count.

They’ve been short-staffed ever since Gwen told them she wasn’t coming back for the summer, too busy with a new research internship she landed at the last minute. Helena’s yet to hire a replacement, so it’s just been her and Allie working at peak hours. Sometimes they’ll manage to snag one of the boys to help, but Helena likes to keep them on the early shift so they can do all the heavy lifting when the stock deliveries come in.

Even though the sun is still setting, Allie can already tell this night is going to be one of those perfect summer nights, the air still warm with the leftover heat of the day, almost no humidity, stars scattered overhead and the smell of the ocean clear and potent even from their spot all the way on the end of the boardwalk strip, where sand starts to turn into grass. 

No one’s in the mood for ice cream quite yet, too busy milking the last of the light from the beach, or having dinner and drinks in the bustling downtown. Once it hits eight, though, Allie knows it’s going to be a madhouse. For now, she lazes behind the frozen display case of the hard ice cream tubs that no one ever gets—soft serve is the name of the game here—dancing around to try to keep warm. It doesn’t help that her hair is still wet, as is her bathing suit underneath her clothes, but whatever. This isn’t her first time around; she’ll live.

Allie’s right about the after-dinner rush. It’s more packed than usual, people clamoring in the small space to place their orders, children crying, teenage girls huddled in groups debating if they want to split a sundae or each get small cones. It’s headache inducing; why can’t people realize that after they get their orders, they’re supposed to get the fuck out and eat outside?

A couple of guys try to hit on Allie, which isn’t out of the ordinary. Sometimes she’ll flirt back, if she’s in the mood and if they’re cute enough (which always annoys Helena because it holds up the line, but they split whatever’s in the tip jar at the end of the night, so Allie doesn’t think she can complain too much). But tonight’s definitely not her night. Some kid spills his M&M swirl cup right on the counter, and she has to pause to give him a replacement before he can start crying and also clean it up, which irritates just about everyone on her side of the line, causing a bunch of them to shift over to Helena’s service window instead. And then she underestimates one of the chocolate dips and ends up dripping the sauce all down her hand and wrist, has to throw that whole ruined cone away and clean herself up.

One of the guys who tries to flirt asks her what her recommendation is, leaning his elbow on the counter all smooth. It’s the same spot the kid spilled his cup earlier and is probably all sticky from the residue because she didn’t exactly have time to give it a thorough wipe-down. She looks him dead in the eye, shrugs, and says, “It’s ice cream.” It’s a classic Helena line.

He orders a junior vanilla cone, plain, and then mutters, “Ice cream girl’s ice cold,” under his breath when she hands it to him. Whatever. He’s not even that good-looking, and his elbow is all gross and sticky now.

When they finally do last call for the night, Allie’s exhausted. She wants nothing more than to go home and take a shower, wash the weird mixture of salt and sugar off her hands. When they’ve locked the glass doors for the night, though, Helena gets a call and Allie catches Luke’s name on the screen. She looks over apologetically at Allie and says, “I really need to go, can you handle closing? You can take the tip jar tonight.”

It’s supposed to be Helena’s turn to close, but Allie agrees—they’re both having a bad night. Might as well make it less bad for one of them. And even though she wants to get out of here, she doesn’t mind closing; it’s not so bad when she’s alone and doesn’t have to deal with demanding customers. Plus she can sneak a cherry dip cone, which she only gets to do when she closes by herself.

Helena thanks her and leaves in a rush, pulling a cardigan on her shoulders and heading out into the summer night. Allie sprays and wipes everything down, finally properly cleaning the spill on the counter, humming along to the classic rock playing on the speakers, perpetually on that station to fit with the vintage vibe of the place.

When she’s counted everything up in the register and has turned off the lights in the front glass area, Allie retreats to the back, grabs a sugar cone and gives herself the perfect vanilla swirl that she runs under the cherry dip machine, enough to coat every ridge in a sweet red shell. And then she pulls a plastic chair up to the counter, props her feet against the display case and eats her ice cream in the dark, enjoying the solitude. She leans back so she can pretend she’s once again in the water, floating and looking up at the sky with nothing but the gentle ebb and flow carrying her in its soothing tide.

And then, suddenly, the lights come back on. It startles Allie enough to jolt her in her chair, flip flops thwacking back onto the linoleum flooring as she looks around. She nearly spills her ice cream.

“Did you pay for that?”

There’s a guy around her age leaning against the frame that leads into the back room. His arms are crossed and he’s looking at her sternly, and...oh God. Allie knows him. She doesn’t know his name, but she knows him. He raises an eyebrow expectantly as she just stares at him; it doesn’t seem like he recognizes her. Figures. He clears his throat, looking down at the ice cream that’s starting to melt in her hand.

“Are you serious?” she asks.

“We’re not running a charity, here,” he replies, tilting his head. What the fuck? It’s one ice cream cone. Also, who is this guy? And how did he get in here?

“You’re Harry Bingham,” she says slowly, sitting up straighter in her chair. Fuck—Karen told them her son would be taking over operations of some of the smaller Bingham-controlled properties in town. She doesn’t know why she hadn’t considered that that would include the parlor. Also, she hadn’t known that _this_ guy was Harry Bingham.

“Yeah. And you’re stealing.”

Allie doesn’t want to be outright rude to this guy who’s apparently her new boss, but he’s being a fucking asshole and she’s already had a rough night. So she stands up without a word, grabs the tip jar from the counter and fishes three dollars out of it before slapping the bills down on the register without bothering to open it up.

“There,” she says, and Harry actually smirks like he’s impressed, or something. And then looks her up and down in a kind of judgemental way. Allie knows she’s not at her best tonight; her swimsuit strings are showing over the collar of her Boardwalk Ice Cream t-shirt, her ponytail has a million flyaways and is crunchy from seawater, grains of sand are still clinging between her toes, she has no makeup on because she spends half her time in the ocean anyways. She certainly looks nothing like she had that night, last year. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t recognize her.

Whatever. Allie’s pissed, so she shoulders her way past him, dumps the half-eaten cone into the trash, and grabs her beach bag from the floor of the back exit. She thinks he might turn around to watch her leave and she has a feeling he’s staring at her ass, but she doesn’t look back to check. She just wants to get out of here.

On the walk back to her apartment, she gets out her phone and texts Helena.

`Allie Pressman: So I just met Harry Bingham`

`Helena Wu: Ugh forgot to let you know Karen told me he would be dropping by this week. Didn’t know it would be today tho.`

`Helena Wu: Hope you made a good impression?`

`Allie Pressman: :/`

`Helena Wu: Wtf is that supposed to mean`

`Allie Pressman: 😬`

Her phone lights up with Helena’s name right after that. Allie picks up, with a certain amount of trepidation, as she crosses over the canal bridge that leads into the sleepy residential community of summer cottages and houses where she rents her attached studio.

“What happened?” Helena demands.

Allie sighs. “Nothing, he just caught me eating a cherry dip cone after everything was locked up.”

“And then you apologized, paid, and said it would never happen again?”

She cringes. “Not exactly.”

“Allie,” Helena says pleadingly. “We already lost Gwen, I can’t afford to lose you too in the middle of the season. You cannot get yourself fired!”

“He was being an asshole!” Allie retorts, and then she feels bad. She knows things are already tough on Helena, who became manager earlier in the year. It was easy to handle then, in the dead months. This is her first time running the parlor in the high season. “Sorry,” she says guiltily. “I’ll fix it.”

“Thank you.”

“Also…” She hesitates, biting her lip. “He and I may have slept together.”

“...Allie.”

“Last year,” she clarifies quickly. “But it’s fine, I don’t think he even remembers. He didn’t recognize me.”

_”Allie.”_

“It was a one time thing. I didn’t even know who he was! So it doesn’t matter.”

Helena’s sigh sounds like static noise through the phone.  


  


**

  
Allie’s not the type to hook up with random guys without even bothering to learn their names. Well, except for when she _was_ the type.

But she was going through it last year, okay? She had just broken up with Will, her first real long-term boyfriend, and then lost the graduate internship she was gunning for to some last minute applicant. Her only consolation was that she’d be able to spend her summer on the beach like usual, so she decided to commemorate that with a string of random hookups that didn’t try to get to know her, nor she them, because she was sick of intimacy at the time, or whatever. Harry Bingham, apparently, had been one of those.

(One of the better ones, too, now that she thinks about it. But that’s neither here nor there.)

And then once she got that out of her system after realizing it made her feel more lonely and shitty than anything else, she started going back in the water on a daily basis and applied for a job at Boardwalk Ice Cream. And then she’d kept it, doing part-time in the off season while she has grad school, and full-time in the summer.

Anyway. So she knows her new boss looks good naked. And thinks she’s attractive enough to sleep with. 

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s an asshole. 

  


**

  
In order to prevent being late again, Allie makes it a point to get her beach hours in the morning rather than the late afternoon.

She normally doesn’t come out at this time, too wary of the crowds, but it’s slightly overcast and it’s a weekday. And if she walks way out beyond the bend of Ocean Ave, where the boardwalk strip turns into literally just plain wood without any of the bars and restaurants, she can get to the spot where the out-of-towners rarely venture. The water’s warmer here, too, something about the rock formations surrounding this area and causing the waves to sit stiller than they do down by the main shoreline.

Allie’s a beach person, but she’s not, like, a Beach Person. She doesn’t make a big production out of it. She comes here alone and lazes in the water for as long as humanly possible, until her teeth are gritty with salt and her fingers and toes are beyond pruney. People make way too big a fucking deal out of coming the beach, she thinks, with their umbrellas and their Tommy Bahama chairs and their packed coolers of drinks and snacks that half the time get snatched up by the seagulls. Usually all she brings is her towel, sunscreen, a change of clothes (because she permanently ditches underwear in favor of swimsuits under everything once it’s past Memorial Day and the weather’s good) and sometimes sunglasses that she wears right in the water.

At some point, Allie realizes she forgot to put on sunscreen before coming in. It must be getting close to noon now, so she sighs, slicks her hair back in the water, and makes her way back to shore so she can make sure she’s not burned and lay for a bit to dry off. When she checks her phone, though, she has a text from Becca telling her they’re at The Chapel, the rustic downtown Italian place that has an open-air, street-facing bar and happy hour on Thursdays that start at noon. Allie hasn’t hung with her friends in a while, so she figures she might as well. Her shift doesn’t start until seven tonight, she’s got time to kill.

She walks home, takes a quick shower, and puts on real clothes for once (“real” being just a sundress and a pair of sandals that actually have a heel strap instead of flip flops or slides) since she knows she’s not going to have a chance to get back out in the water for the rest of the day.

Once she gets to The Chapel, Becca and Sam are already clearly a few drinks in and sitting at the outdoor bar adjacent to the barn doors that stay perpetually open as long as the weather permits and leads into the picnic-bench style tables and the indoor portion of the bar. Off in the corner, Clark and Jason lift their bottles in greeting when they spot her, and she gives them a wave.

“You always smell so salty this time of year,” Becca says during their hug.

“I took a shower!” Allie protests. Becca laughs and rolls her eyes, like she’s only half-joking.

She orders a bar pizza for herself because she hasn’t eaten all day and she’s not about to drink on an empty stomach. She only ever realizes how hungry she is after she’s out of the water, all of her bodily functions seeming to pause whenever she’s among the waves.

“What have you been up to?” Sam signs. “You never come downtown anymore.”

“She’s always on the strip,” Becca says, sipping her margarita. “Head in the clouds, the rest of her in the sea. And if she’s not doing that then she’s at the tacky ice cream place.”

“Hey!” Allie says around a mouthful of cheese. Management and dealing with customers aside, she actually really likes the parlor. It’s charming, like a place out of the past, right at home on the end of the boardwalk. Not to mention that she also loves ice cream in general, has been sneaking samples under Helena’s nose all season, cherry dip cone incident notwithstanding. “This town isn’t that big, you guys, it’s like a fifteen minute walk. You could always come see me.”

“If it’s that small, then come to this side more often,” Becca argues. Allie laughs; it’s true that she doesn’t come downtown as often as most of the other locals do during the season, too caught up on the beach and the boardwalk, where the bennys tend to flock. The main downtown corridor is full of brunch spots and quirky eateries and bars and people who will stop to chat with each other on the street because everyone kind of knows everyone, or is at least only one or two degrees of separation away. It’s still only June, though, and Allie has been trying to get her peace and quiet.

“Meet each other in the middle?” she says. “Come to the parlor and I’ll come have brunch, or something.”

Sam wrinkles his nose; she knows he prefers the specialty gelato place that opened up in February, where they have make-your-own cannolis and fancy flavors like Ferrero Rocher. She prefers her place, though, the kind of all-American shop with red and white stripes on the awning and where the best thing on the menu is a chocolate vanilla swirl sugar cone with rainbow sprinkles. “I’ll give you guys free milkshakes,” she says, because nobody can resist a good milkshake.

“Only if I can add Kahlúa to it,” Sam signs. Allie considers and—that’s not actually too bad of an idea.

“Deal.”

After she’s a few drinks in—it’s still the afternoon, okay, she has plenty of time to sober up before she starts her shift—she’s regaling Becca and Sam with exactly how big of an ass her new boss is, telling them that he’s some snotty rich boy who was so rude to her for no fucking reason. She carefully leaves out the detail of them having slept together once. 

They agree with her vehemently, always ready to tear into the upper class as they are, pointing out to her that he’s definitely an entitled prick. Everyone knows the Binghams own half the town, including all the new luxury residential complexes that have slowly started cropping up everywhere. What the fuck are they doing running some ice cream parlor, anyway? 

“That’s what I’m saying!” Becca says, slamming her palm flat on the bar. Allie snorts around her glass, enjoying just how revved up her friend gets over stuff like this. It feels nice, just shit talking for a bit. Helena definitely wouldn’t let something like this fly. “He has no business trying to intimidate a minimum wage worker. Fucking dick. Their whole family, really.”

Allie nods along, even though Karen has been nothing but nice when Allie’s come across her and is totally hands-off when it comes to the shop, letting Helena handle everything. And even though Harry hadn’t exactly been intimidating her—he was pointing out, not incorrectly, that she was trying to sneak food that she didn’t pay for. He just did it in an asshole-ish way, that’s all.

Sam starts getting into the woes of the gentle laborer, and he and Becca tend to go off on a whole tangent whenever that happens, so Allie glances around, trying to assess if she knows anyone else in this place. Clark and Jason are still by the corner, nursing a couple of beers and likely exhausted from unloading the stock trucks Allie knows had shown up at like 5am this morning. The only other person Allie recognizes is Lexie, at one of the tables with a group of hipster-looking people dressed in black. The two of them never exactly got along back when their circles were similar-ish, so she decides she’ll just have to sit with Sam and Becca for a little while longer.

And then she spots Harry, leaning over and talking to the bartender, sipping one of the house cocktails. “Oh my God,” she hisses, slapping Sam on the arm, interrupting his vigorous signing on the practical applications of modern day Marxism. “That’s him! By the bar.”

“Go up to him and tell him off,” Becca immediately says. “Also, you didn’t mention that he looks like _that._ ”

“Rich and an asshole,” Sam signs. “Hot definitely checks the last box on the list.”

“It’s so unfair that everyone hot is always a douche,” Becca says. “Except for us, obviously. Are you gonna go yell at him?” 

“No,” Allie moans. “No, shit, I told Helena I’d fix it. I have to go apologize.”

“I hate to see it,” Sam says.

Allie does too. But she wants to keep her job and she did promise Helena. 

As she gets out of her stool, it doesn’t occur to her that it’s perhaps not the best idea to do this in the middle of the day, in the middle of the bar, after she’s had more than a few drinks. It’s too late to reconsider, though, because he spots her approaching and looks at her kind of apprehensively.

“Hey!” she says, trying to fake enthusiasm, the same put-on kind of voice you use when you run into someone you’re sort-of-friends-but-mostly-acquaintances with in public. He raises an eyebrow, so clearly that doesn’t work. “Hey,” she tries again, more subdued. “I’m, uh.” She’s trying to apologize, right. Would it be weird to go into that without some small talk first? He’s looking at her all expectantly. Why are his eyebrows nearly as good as hers? God, she might be a little too tipsy for this. “What are you doing here?”

“The same thing everyone’s doing at The Chapel on a Thursday, I imagine,” he says, gesturing around with his drink in hand.

Ugh. Allie hates this already. “Right,” she says, tipping her own glass towards him just for something to do. He looks at it, amused.

“Aperol Spritz?”

“Yeah, fuck if I’m gonna let that bitch from the _New York Times_ tell me this isn’t a good drink, you know?” she says, latching onto the subject. He blinks. Fuck, he doesn’t know what she’s referencing. That’s the worst.

And then he smiles a little, and says, “You know she got a James Beard nomination for beverages after that came out. Fucking ridiculous.”

Despite herself, Allie laughs. “A miscarriage of justice.” His smile widens and—she doesn’t think she’s seen that before. Last year, it was all dark, purposeful looks and then last night it was that infuriating smirk. He’s actually got a nice smile, she notices. Maybe he’s not as much of an asshole as she first thought. “Hey, um, anyway. I just wanted to say sorry about last night. I was having a rough day and I should have paid and I probably shouldn’t have been rude about it.”

Harry nods. “Thanks for apologizing,” he says, which she thinks is...kind of a shitty response. Like, she was sort of expecting him to also say sorry. She’s quickly revising her stance on his asshole-status, jumping back to her original way of thinking. He glances down at her outfit. 

“You look different. Almost didn’t recognize you coming over.” He just barely tugs at the hem of her sundress, midway down her thigh, making the skirt flutter around her legs.

It’s sort of a backhanded compliment. Not that he’s said anything about her looking good or bad, but has basically made it known that she looked like shit last night so like, that’s cool. 

“I was at the beach before my shift yesterday,” she says defensively, even though she doesn’t owe this guy an explanation.

“I could tell, yeah,” Harry replies. Allie juts her chin at him, anticipating what he’s going to say next; it’s not a crime. She can do whatever she wants outside of working hours. Including go swimming, or get day drunk. He looks at her from beneath his lashes and does that smirk again. “This version looks a little more familiar, though.”

That’s not what she’d been expecting. Allie’s cheeks heat, even more than they already have from the drinks. So he _does_ remember her. What the fuck? Then why had he acted like he hadn’t? What was he so mean for? She’s regretting ever coming over here, and regretting her apology doubly so. The drinks are still in her system, lowering her inhibitions enough for her to tell him, flatly, “You’re an asshole.”

He raises both eyebrows at her, that smirk still curled on his lips, not looking taken aback at all. She turns on her heel and goes back to the front of the place, where Sam and Becca are still sitting at the streetside barstools. They see the look on her face, though, and stop their conversation.

“That bad?” Sam signs.

“Should have gone with Becca’s idea in the first place,” she mutters, grabbing her bag from the hook under the bar quickly. She doesn’t want to see if Harry’s looking at her, insides still burning from their exchange. “Venmo me my bill, I’m gonna go.”

“You owe us those milkshakes!” Becca calls out to her as she’s leaving.

Oh yeah, she’ll definitely be giving out some free milkshakes. 

  


**

  
At her apartment, Allie chugs two bottles of water and runs a bath, even though she took a shower earlier. But being surrounded by water always helps calm her down, helps get her bearings right again, and she needs that night now.

She brings her knees up and sinks the rest of her body low in the warm water, lays her temple down against the cool ledge of the tub, and thinks back to that night, last year. 

Not that Allie was being too picky at the time, but Harry had been good. Great, even. At one point, she remembers him trying to ask for her name before she shut him up with her mouth, and he didn’t pursue it again. And then as she was leaving, he leaned back against the sheets, his hair all messy and falling attractively across his forehead and said, “We should do this again sometime,” only by then Allie was anxious to head to the beach and made some kind of noncommittal noise before going out the door.

Allie sighs. Whatever. She pretty much hates this guy at this point, even if he’s in charge of the parlor now. She doesn’t know why that even has to be the case—things were going fine with just Helena running things and Karen occasionally handing down the budget. The shop’s as popular as ever.

She thinks of her failed apology, though, and knows Helena’s not going to be happy. Maybe Allie just won’t tell her. 

  


**

  
Helena’s already there when Allie gets to the shop; apparently Grizz had to leave early in the afternoon, so she’s been working a double shift and looks dead on her feet.

Yeah, she’s definitely not going to mention her second encounter with Harry. Luckily, he’s not here and she has no idea if or when he might show up. 

“Can you please drink some water, or something?” Allie says when she sees the other girl. There are only a few people around, having their ice cream at the wire picnic tables surrounding the parlor, but no one’s in line right this second. “Have you eaten at all?”

“I think I’m gonna break up with Luke,” is what Helena responds with. Allie presses her lips together and then rubs a hand up and down Helena’s arm. She knows the two of them have been having problems. And she’s kept it entirely to herself that she didn’t think it was a good idea in the first place for Helena to date one of the stock room boys, so she can’t say she’s all that surprised. But Helena’s still her friend, even if she can be kind of strict as a manager.

Helena gives her a grateful smile when Allie heads to the back and reemerges with a bottle of water and a banana that they usually reserve for making splits, the only viable option for actual nutrition in this place, and presses those into Helena’s hands. She doesn’t even make a fuss about Allie taking merchandise again.

“You didn’t take the tip jar last night,” Helena says.

“Eh,” Allie shrugs. “It’s fine. We can just split it as usual.”

“But you’re closing again tonight,” Helena protests, but Allie shakes her head.

“We’ll divvy it up tomorrow,” she says firmly. She’s not going to budge on this. “Okay?”

Helena gives her another grateful smile and almost looks like she wants to hug Allie, except Allie knows Helena’s not really the type for casual contact. A few cars have started pulling up to their lot now, people lining up at the doors to get their evening treats.

“By the way, please tell me you fixed the thing with Harry,” Helena says after she chugs the water bottle, before they have to start serving customers. “I don’t want to have to beg the Binghams to let you keep your job.”

“You’d beg for me?” Allie jokes, thinking it’s kind of sweet. Helena gives her a serious look, and she relents. “I’ll handle it,” she says more sincerely, “really. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

She means it, for Helena’s sake this time. She’ll swallow her pride so her friend can survive the summer without tearing her hair out.

Just like always, they survive the evening madhouse. By the end of it, Helena looks beyond exhausted and Allie is practically shooing her out the door, saying she’ll take care of counting and cleaning herself again.

"Have to go deliver the bad news to Luke," Helena mutters darkly as she's gathering her stuff from the back room. "Wouldn't be surprised if he quits, and then we're down yet another person."

"You know, I don't think he would," Allie muses, because despite all his shortcomings, Luke's genuinely a nice guy, too, and he knows how dire the staff situation is, plus all his friends work with him in the morning. It's a whole thing among the locals—pick the time of day you want to visit the parlor, cute guys in the AM, cute girls in the PM. "We definitely do need to hire someone, though. You and I can't be keeping this up forever."

"I know," Helena sighs. "I'm working on it."

After she's gone, Allie sends a quick text to Becca and Sam saying that milkshakes will have to wait until another day, because now she actually feels bad about the whole thing, mostly thanks to Helena. She does a quick sweep-up of the floor, which doesn't take long since the indoor area is so tiny, and is spraying down the outside picnic tables when, behind her, someone clears their throat.

She has a feeling she knows who it is before she turns around and mentally prepares herself to eat crow, picturing Helena's tired expression in her mind. Indeed, Harry's there, leaning against the outside frame of the glass entrance, backlit by the fluorescent lighting from the inside of the parlor.

"I'm sorry," she says, before he can get a word in edgewise and before she psychs herself out. "For calling you an asshole earlier today, and for last night, again. And if you wanna fire me, I get it but—please just let Helena find a good replacement before you do, because we're kind of drowning."

He actually laughs. "Woah, I'm not gonna fire you, Allie," he says, putting both hands up. "I actually don't even know if I can, my mom sang me praises about how the staff at this place are the only reason it's so reliable." Only then does Allie realize she still hasn't given him her name, so he must have gotten it from the schedule sheet or something. It's a little presumptuous of him to start using it right away, but she's not necessarily going to point that out to him when she's trying to get on his good side. "I just came to check in for the night, which is also what I was trying to do last night. How's everything?"

"Oh. Um...good. We had to dig into the new shipment of maraschino cherries, I guess. Sundae season." It feels weird to be talking about this, even though it’s their job.

"Is that so?"

There's something a little dirty about his tone, practically drawling, and the way he's tilting his head to the side and looking at her, even though his words are innocuous. Allie sucks a breath in through her teeth, feeling the need to address it.

"Hey, look, if...what happened last year is gonna make this whole thing weird—"

"Right," Harry says, clicking his tongue. "I wasn't gonna bring it up, but since you're the one who did. Can't say that's ever happened to me before, honestly."

Allie pauses. "You...were a virgin?" She can hear the disbelief in her own voice because...there's just no way.

Harry barks out a laugh. "What? No."

"Then that was your first one night stand, or something?"

He's looking at her a little curiously now, and she plays with the disinfectant spray in her hands awkwardly, wondering where he's taking this. "I gave you my number," he says slowly, looking down at her. "And then you never called me."

"What? No, you didn't."

"I definitely did," Harry says, crossing his arms. "Slipped it into the pocket of those little shorts you were wearing."

Allie can't believe he even remembers what she'd been wearing that night, because she certainly can't. Or maybe...that was towards the end of her whole spiral, when she'd been gravitating back towards the beach to focus on herself more. And she'd wanted to get out of his place so she could go to the beach for the sunrise and...yeah, she'd definitely worn her clothes right in the water because she didn’t have a suit and was going to walk right home after anyway, and his number definitely got washed away by the sea.

It doesn't change the fact that she probably wouldn't have called him regardless. But he doesn't need to know that.

"I may have gone for a dip right when I left, so...some lucky fish has your digits now," Allie says. It sounds far-fetched, but it's the truth.

Harry shakes his head, a bemused smile curving on the edge of his lips. "You know, that's such a fucking stupid excuse that I actually believe you."

Allie gives a mock curtsy, spray bottle in one hand and dirty rag in the other. "I try my best."

Harry uncrosses his arms, and he gets that look on his face again. "So there may have been another reason I came by tonight. Which...is to see if you wanted to go get a drink? I mean, unless you're tapped out from this afternoon."

Allie looks him up and down and. Yeah, okay. He's gorgeous. Like, stupidly so. And not that there's necessarily a shortage of hot guys in their beach town of mostly transient, bored, young people but Harry's a whole different league. But she also tries to picture where this would go, and...it might be fun, but she honestly still has kind of a bad taste in her mouth from her earlier interactions with him. He also looks so _sure_ of himself, like there's no way she's going to say no, especially now that they've both acknowledged their brief history.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she says, trying to be nice, because he's still, after all, her boss. Even if this is just a stopover type job until she figures out what to do in terms of actual career.

"Okay, yeah, no worries," Harry says, taking it in stride, and Allie can't believe she's turned _this_ hot of a guy down. Twice now, technically. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Sorry," Allie says, even though she's not. But it's the thing you're supposed to say. "I gotta..." She gestures awkwardly to where he's blocking the door, because she still needs to go back inside and lock the doors for the night.

"Right." He steps fully out of the frame so they don't have to pass each other too closely, but the air is still charged when they do pass. Allie keeps her head down as she puts the cleaning supplies away and, while her back is turned to him, mouths _'what the fuck'_ to herself.

He's not going to fire her. So that's the main thing, really. And that's all she needs to tell Helena. She can count this as a win, right? 

  


**

  
On the day of the summer solstice, the city kicks off its weekly beach bonfires.

Every Friday at sunset, a huge communal bonfire pops up at a rotating spot, sometimes beyond the bend, sometimes down by 1st Ave, sometimes next to the rocky section of the water that’s buoyed off. 

Allie used to be a regular, but she skipped out on most of them last year. She kind of misses it, being able to stand around and shoot the shit and drink and sit on beach chairs. There's no particular activity that goes along with it—people are like moths, drawn to the huge source of heat and light while the sea wind blows through, cool in the night and sending sparks up into the air every so often. It's a family friendly event, so nobody gets too crazy or out of hand and a lot of times there are kids who bring marshmallows to roast while everyone else stands around with beers.

Becca somehow roped her into a date with some guy named Shoe who just moved to town, so she's supposed to go with him. Allie's not sure if that's his last name or a nickname or what, but at least that'll be something to talk about. Before she leaves the house, she swipes on mascara and puts on a strappy white sundress that she knows looks good against her tan and she thinks will be nice in the firelight.

She hisses as she lifts her small brown crossbody bag over her head; her arms are fucking killing her. Today's her day off, but she's switched to early morning shifts with the boys, which involves lifting the stock shipments that come in. It’s a trade-off between that and dealing with customers, since hardly anyone ever comes by early in the day. She won't say she did it to avoid running into Harry again, but...Helena's updated her, and he does tend to only drop by at night after closing. Grizz offered to trade the afternoon spot with her, but he's just about the only one of them capable of running the parlor solo, save for Helena, and she doesn’t want to mess up the careful schedule balance they've struck up.

It's fine, because her arms are actually way more toned than they were at the beginning of the summer and now she has her afternoons and evenings free to do whatever. Plus soaking in saltwater is supposed to help with muscle sores, and God knows she does plenty of that.

Shoe has a long face and long hair and looks like a surfer-bro. He's not really the type Allie would necessarily pick out of a crowd, but she doesn't mind all that much so long as the two of them can get along. When he speaks, his voice is way deeper than she thought it would be. He tells her she looks nice and he pays for the drinks they get at Boardwalk Beverages to bring down to the fire, so it's definitely not too bad so far.

Becca spots her when they get down to the crowd and gives her an exaggerated wink. Allie makes a face, hoping Shoe hadn’t seen, but he's not paying attention, gazing out at the dark waves pensively. Allie knows that look; he wants to be out there. Maybe this might work out after all.

The best part about the bonfires on the beach, in Allie's opinion, is the smell. The salt from the sea mixed with the smoke and flame and driftwood, along with the marshmallows that kids shove into the embers—it's the best combination, and it makes her acutely nostalgic in all the best ways, back when she and Cassandra were those kids with the marshmallows. That was before Cassandra moved away to her big city life and her big city job and Allie, with her head in the clouds and the rest of her in the sea, stayed behind, as always, tied to the beach.

She tells Shoe this much, but it turns out that he's a man of very little words. Practically none, in fact. He just listens silently, nodding and sipping his beer and looking out at the ocean, where the waves crash rhythmically against the surf. Allie turns her head away and blows out a breath. She's not that talkative of a person, she has no idea how much longer she can keep this up; she’s carrying the entire conversation and hasn’t learned a thing about him. Is this what talking to her is like, the few times she's gone to the beach with other people?

The sun makes its final dip below the horizon, and the sky goes from purple to navy, the fire painting dancing light all onto the ridges and indents of the sand. She scans the crowd for Becca or Sam or anyone else so she can maybe make an excuse to Shoe about wanting to say hi to her friends and get away for a bit. 

Instead, she sees Harry, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, laughing in the glow of the fire with his arm slung over a girl's shoulder as she feeds him a burnt marshmallow.

Allie doesn't know why she stares for so long. It doesn't matter. He asked her out and she said no, and she's been avoiding him because of that. Who cares if he's on a date tonight? He's allowed. _She's_ on a date, too.

Allie has the straps of her sandals in one hand, her beer in the other, and she decides to try again with Shoe.

"So is Shoe your real name, or just a nickname?" she asks, tapping the mouth of her bottle against his to be friendly.

He shrugs. "It's just what people call me."

Okay. Allie doesn't know what she's supposed to do with that. She exhales again, not even bothering to cover up her annoyance this time. He barely notices and she decides to bite the bullet and ask the one question he's likely to actually respond to.

"So do you surf?"

He finally looks at her, more life in his eyes than she's seen all evening. "Yeah. Do you?"

"Nope."

It's comical how quickly his face falls. Allie wants to roll her eyes. "Oh. That's too bad."

She just nods, and makes a mental note to introduce him to Grizz. Like she thought would be the case, he doesn't care at all when she says something lame about wanting to go mingle for a bit, check out what else is happening around the fire, and he doesn't try to follow her when she wanders back into the crowd.

She finds Becca undoubtedly in the middle of talking up a girl with long hair and wide eyes, and unceremoniously grabs her by the elbow, away from the conversation that looked to be going fairly well.

"What the hell," Allie hisses. "That was not a date. That sucked. Why'd you set me up with him?"

To her credit, Becca looks genuinely sorry. "I don't actually know him that well, I just thought he was nice and you two are, like, both obsessed with the ocean. But I'm sorry it didn't work out, was he a dick? I'll go punch him."

"No," Allie says, "no, he was nice, he just...wasn't interested."

Becca raises her eyebrows and tilts her head. "Well. First time for everything. But I'm trying, okay, and it's hard since you decided to sleep with half the guys here last year, and he's new in town so he couldn't have been one of them."

"Hey!" she protests. "None of those guys were exactly dating material." Her mind immediately jumps to Harry and his attempts—twice—to date her, but she refuses to entertain that thought. "And," she adds, "you were all, like, 'go girl, power to you' when I was doing it."

Becca puts her hand on Allie's shoulder solemnly. "And I stand by that. But it does make things difficult for getting back in the actual dating game."

Allie sighs. She doesn't even necessarily want to date. Becca and Sam have just been pushing her to get out there more, and she's noticed that her days have begun to form a pattern, rotating between beach time and work time. The only thing that breaks up the monotony is going grocery shopping once a week or the gym every few days, which are also the only times she ever drives her car anywhere.

"Thanks for trying," she tells Becca. "I'll let you get back to it."

"How gracious," Becca says sarcastically, and then turns back to the long-haired girl.

It's too nice of a night to go back to her apartment yet, and Allie's never had a problem spending time alone, so she gets another beer and wanders for a bit. Clark and Jason see her and invite her to join them in kicking a soccer ball around on the sand, but Luke's with them, sitting on a log and looking morose. Allie doesn't want to deal with that, so she just smiles and says she's good. 

She ends up finding a spot a ways away from the fire itself, by a tuft of beachgrass waving in the breeze, and staring out at the waves. She could honestly do this for hours, just sit here and gaze at the water. Once it hits late July or August, it'll be consistently warm enough for night swimming, which has always been her favorite, even though she only dares to do it once or twice a season since technically it's not allowed.

After a few minutes, she feels rather than sees someone sit down next to her from the shift in the sand.

"Bad date?" Harry asks her, because of course it's him. She doesn't know what to think of the fact that he noticed she was on one, and then saw that she wasn't anymore and decided to come join her. She'd be a hypocrite to call him out on it, since she noticed that he was on one, too. And now isn't anymore, apparently.

She shrugs in response. "Just wasn't a connection. You get sick of marshmallows, or something?"

He laughs, because she's shown her hand a bit and admitted that she saw that stunt. "Honestly? Yeah, kind of. Kept forcing them down my throat. I can still taste them now. She was...pretty drunk."

"At the family friendly beach bonfire? Classy," Allie says, even though every one of these things always has at least one person who gets drunker than they should.

"At least she didn't call me an asshole," he quips. She opens her mouth to make some kind of indignant retort, but then she turns and sees that he has an amused grin. He's joking. Apparently they can joke about it now.

"Very funny," she says, crossing her arms and looking up at the sky.

"You switched your shifts," he says next. So he's noticed that too. Like hell she's going to admit it was because of him, though.

"The night crowd is a fucking nightmare," she says, which is a perfectly valid reason, being that it's true.

"Sure," he agrees easily. She wants to ask him why he's come over, why he's talking to her, because it's not like they're friends, but she doesn't want to make it weird. Plus, she's over the whole being mad at him thing. She’s realized he was just displaying typical male ego behavior. "Listen," he says, and oh good, she knows explanations usually follow that word, so apparently he's decided to address it himself. "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. And I also realized that I never apologized for my part."

She turns to him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You were right, I _was_ being an asshole that night. And then I probably shouldn't have brought up last year either, at The Chapel. I was just being salty for no good reason."

Well. This is the conversation she'd wanted to have in The Chapel in the first place, so she'll take it, even if it's weeks delayed.

"So I gave you my spiel about having a rough night as the reason for my bitchiness. What's your excuse?" She picks up her beer bottle, plays with the condensation forming down its sides and watches it drip down her fingers, pretends it's saltwater.

Harry sighs. "It's kind of a long story."

"Oh, thanks for letting me know, I wasn't just sitting here staring into the distance before you showed up or anything."

"Okay, touché. I guess," he begins, looking pensively at the bottle in his own hands, "you're a local, right, probably grew up coming here every summer? And then moved once you got old enough?"

Yikes. He's pegged her to a T. "Is it that obvious?" she asks. It's scary how accurate his guess is. Although it's kind of a regional cliche, she knows, because that's exactly what happened to Sam, Becca, and Helena, too. Probably countless others.

"Well, you're definitely not a fuckin' out-of-towner."

"Fuck those people," Allie says emphatically. "They need to get out."

"Fuck 'em," Harry agrees. It's practically a mantra among their folk now. "Anyway, so you get that Boardwalk Ice Cream is a staple, right? I mean, I know my family owns it, but we didn't always. It's been there forever."

"Yeah," Allie says. It's even in the name—all the longtime establishments along the strip have the simplest of names that advertise exactly what it is they do. Boardwalk Ice Cream. Boardwalk Beverages. Boardwalk Pizza. That's all it used to be, before things started getting remodeled and fancier, more upscale places like Cuban restaurants and fusion taco trucks started moving in, slowly replacing the old. She had her first ever date at Boardwalk Ice Cream, when she was fifteen. Her mom used to go there when she was a little girl, even though then it was literally a stand rather than the small building it is now.

"My dad was all about keeping that stuff around, preserving the charm of this place," Harry explains. "But after my mom took control, we started getting more into real estate development instead. And she was thinking about selling the parlor, until I convinced her not to. With the catch being that I have to be the one overseeing it now. Also because she wants me to, like, take on a bigger role in the company, or whatever. Live out my dad's dying wish."

Well that got a lot deeper than she expected. But she appreciates the honesty, and she thinks she can understand where he's coming from now. "So it was your first day on the job and you saw me stealing a cone and freaked out," she concludes.

"I did not _freak out_ ," he argues. Allie gives him a look. "I've never done this before, okay? It was micromanaging. Not a freak out."

"I'm not, like, moving inventory on the downlow from the shop and depriving everyone in town of soft-serve," Allie says, wanting to laugh. "I was having a cone at the end of a long shift."

"Yeah, I got it loud and clear," Harry says. "Helena says you sling ‘em like no other. Know the menu by heart and everything."

"It's not a complicated menu," Allie replies, even though she's pleased with Helena's compliment. "And I love ice cream."

"I mean. What's not to love?"

Allie certainly can’t argue with that. 

  


**

  
In July, Helena hires a girl named Elle to alleviate some of the shift stress. Allie’s gone back to her usual schedule for the most part now, though she still rotates between mornings and nights on occasion if Jason’s in the mood to trade.

Elle is quiet and reserved when Allie trains her, nodding along silently with the directions. Allie's not sure how she's going to fare with the customers at first, but then she makes a perfect swirl on the soft serve machine on her very first try and doesn't need to be told twice where all the toppings are. Allie also catches her piping a fudge smiley face onto her practice sundae, which she decides is just about the most endearing thing.

"The crowd might eat you up, but just try to hold your own," Allie advises before Elle's first live shift. "And if guys try to get gross, you can tell Helena and she'll shut them right down. Or you can do what I do and try to get them to buy our monster sundaes and then totally skimp out on toppings and whipped cream."

Elle laughs at that, and it lights up her whole face prettily, transforming from what must be just a case of a default sullen expression (Allie hates the term resting bitch face, ever since someone said she had it in middle school). 

"I think I can handle myself," she says, and Allie believes her.

They normally close the parlor on the 4th of July. The beach becomes absolutely unbearable for the whole weekend, crowds drawn in by the oceanfront fireworks and festivities. Allie usually goes home and spends a few lowkey days with her parents, grilling and watching backyard neighborhood fireworks. But Harry informs them that he's planning on keeping it open for the 4th this year, because they could use the extra revenue and it certainly would go a long way in convincing Bingham Development (AKA Harry's mom) to keep the parlor in their portfolio.

The staff group chat they have blows up for a bit with complaints, but then Helena silences them all when she tells them that they are, under no circumstances, to flake out on their shifts or she will personally hunt them down. They all know she absolutely means it. Allie considers begging someone to trade for the morning shift, but there's no way Luke and Helena are going to work in the same space together and Clark has a second job manning the fireworks stand at night that he's already committed to. She and Jason already traded last week and she doubts he'll go for it again.

Allie's still sour about it though, so she forces Helena to give her Harry's number. And this might be totally ruining the peace they seem to have struck up since the night of the solstice, but she's pissed enough in the moment to risk it and text him.

`Allie Pressman: If you're gonna make us all work on the 4th, then you should also have to come`

`Harry Bingham: And this is...?`

`Allie Pressman: I'll give you one guess`

`Harry Bingham: You finally got my number back from that fish, I see.`

`Harry Bingham: But I guess you make a fair point. I'll be there.`

Well that had been easier than expected. 

  


**

  
The morning of, the town is already teeming with people for the long weekend, so much so that Allie skips going into the water entirely, which makes her feel off for the rest of the day.

Becca has gone home for the weekend but Sam hasn't, so he and Allie make pancakes and sit around on the porch of the house her tiny studio is attached to, watching the cars slowly line the residential streets as parking on the strip and downtown becomes increasingly scarce.

"Did I mention Harry Bingham's working tonight?" she tells him as they watch group after group of people arrive and get their whole trunks' worth of beach shit out to lug the twenty minute walk to the water. "I made him."

"The rich boy? That I have to see," Sam says.

"Is it bad that I kind of can't wait?" Allie asks. "He's going to hate it. And he'll be so bad."

She and Sam both snicker and then spend the rest of the afternoon tanning in the yard, away from the crowds and the noise.

Harry, to her absolute dismay, does not hate it. Well, she doesn't know that for sure, but if he does, then he does a hell of a good job hiding it. Nor is he bad, which is the part that really infuriates her.

No, instead he's...charming with the customers in a way that usually only Allie is, in particular with the girls that come by. He insists they all need one cone each instead of splitting a sundae, even sells them on Oreo crunch and caramel drizzle toppings and they actually listen to him, giggling whenever he so much as looks their way. And he's not actually making any of the ice cream, just ringing up the orders since it's busy enough to warrant a two-person-per-register team.

Allie can't even be actually mad, though, because he's blowing through them with a strange kind of finesse that's making the night not as unbearable as she thought it might be, the lines moving quickly and efficiently as the hours go on. She's working the other register, smiling through it and trying to tell herself it's worth it for moments like when she gives a tiny girl a chocolate chip ice cream cookie sandwich the size of her head. The girl lights up and starts getting it all over her dress almost immediately, but it's still cute.

A group of guys who are obvious out-of-towners come up and try chatting with her for a bit, asking for her name and if she's from around here. There are four of them—she can make this work, she thinks.

"We're gonna go watch the midnight fireworks down by the bend, if you wanna come join us," one of them offers, leaning his elbow on the service counter. God, what is it with guys and this weird elbow-lean? Allie does not find it cute.

She bats her eyelashes and says, "I would, but my psycho boss is making me fill a quota tonight for our new mega-milkshakes. I can't leave unless I've sold enough. How crazy is that?"

The guys look at each other, and then Allie's ringing them up for four mega-milkshakes, which have the whole works—malted, with specialty milk, topped up with whipped cream and toasted almonds and coconut flakes and every drizzle they have on hand, a dollar fifty per add-on. They also leave her a tip in the jar, and she spies a strip of torn receipt paper among the bills that probably has one of their numbers on it. No big deal, that's easy to sort and throw away.

When she's coming back from a quick bathroom break, Harry catches her as she's resuming her post, relieving Elle from getting too overwhelmed.

"You're a sneak," he says quietly so that no one else can hear, "with the whole milkshake thing. Damn."

Allie raises her eyebrows. "That's how you get it done, Bingham," she says primly.

He scoffs and—okay, there's a weird glint in his eye now. And then she doesn't mean for it to turn into a competition after that, but it sort of does. He flirts with every girl around their age who comes by—or older, because Allie sees him give a winning smile to someone who looks her grandmother's age, telling her she deserves to treat herself with a good, old-fashioned banana split. Allie does just about the same with every guy, only she limits herself because she is _not_ going to flirt with someone's dad or grandpa, okay?

By the end of the night, the tip jar in between the both of their registers is nearly overflowing, which is good since they have to split it among four people tonight instead of the usual two. Or maybe three—Harry _owns_ the place. Allie doesn't think he quite deserves any of the tips.

"God, I'm beat," Harry sighs when the final customers, a tired-looking mom and her sleepy son, finally leave. "You guys do this every night?"

"Pretty much," Helena says, her hands on her hips. Allie's actually not even as tired as she is at the end of a usual shift, thanks to all the extra help. Harry, on the other hand, looks ready to throw it in.

While Elle sprays the outside tables down and Helena retracts the red and white awning, Allie grabs the tip jar and fishes the torn receipt paper out from the mess of scrunched up bills. Just like she thought, there's a number on it and a scrawled name, but the handwriting is awful and she can't tell if it says Eric or Evan or whatever else.

"You're actually gonna go meet with the milkshake dudes?" Harry asks when he catches sight of the scrap of paper in her hands.

Allie had originally taken the paper out of the jar so she could throw it away, but now that Harry's gone ahead and assumed, she gets a little annoyed. "Maybe." Even though she isn't. "What, am I not allowed?"

"I didn't say that," he says, shrugging.

The four of them finish up for the night, counting up the register and splitting the contents of the tip jar (Harry does indeed count himself out of the running for it, even though he’d helped rack up a good portion of its contents tonight). Helena tells them she can handle locking up and says the rest of them should get going, enjoy the small remainder of the night. Allie's fully intending to go home and binge some shitty reality television, because she knows she won't be able to get to sleep with the noise of the fireworks and the parties all across town.

"Wait," Harry says as she's nearly out the door. She turns, but he's addressing all of them, not just her. "This was a great night for the shop, why don't you guys let me get you a drink or something to celebrate? On me. Enjoy what's left of the holiday, and all."

"No offense, Harry," Helena says, "but we're kind of over getting wasted on the 4th at Ocean's Tavern."

"Not Ocean's," Harry replies, putting his hands in his pockets. "We'll go to Kim's. We'll be able to see the fireworks."

In the end, Elle ends up going home and Allie only agrees because it seems like Helena kind of wants to go, but not alone with Harry. And Allie thinks Helena, of all people, deserves a free drink at Kim's Lounge, the spot right in the center of the boardwalk that's normally way out of budget for Allie and any of her friends. The place has amazing panoramic oceanfront views and floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking it all, with an attached balcony, and a strict no-beachwear dress code. People come here to schmooze and sometimes watch the concerts that get held on the beach a couple times each summer without having to mingle with the crowd down below.

Helena orders a double whiskey straight away. Allie catches Harry raising a brow, but he doesn't say anything. She gets a house cocktail and he gets an Old Fashioned and the three of them take their drinks out to the balcony, where most of the people here are milling around, waiting for the fireworks over the water to start. They talk about the store, the new shipment of waffle cones they're supposed to get in a few days, the first time they ever visited the shop. Allie and Harry both say they're too young to remember, but Helena moved to the area in fifth grade and she reveals that after her first time, she told her parents she wanted to live in the ice cream parlor forever.

"Wow, be careful what you wish for," Allie laughs. Helena groans. And then she spots one of her high school friends over by the indoor lounge area, which is a common occurrence in a town their size. Helena thanks Harry for the drink (that she polished off in about a minute) and then floats off.

"Is she gonna quit on me or something?" Harry asks, looking curiously after her.

"No, she loves the shop," Allie assures him. "We all do. She's just had a really rough few weeks. Just went through a breakup, actually." She's not sure if she should be telling Harry this, but whatever. Her drink's making her a little looser in the limbs.

"Ouch," Harry says. "And all she got was the double? Better than how I am."

"Same here," Allie mutters. She's starting to realize that they're now basically at this bar alone, waiting for the fireworks to come on, and this is starting to resemble that night last year a little too closely. She takes a large swallow of her drink and tells herself it's fine, Harry knows the boundaries, he’s just trying to be friendly. Which he's apparently fully capable of.

"Can I ask you something?" She turns to him, setting her drink down on the wide, flat balcony railing.

"Why am I so good with customers?"

"Yes! Actually," Allie says. "I didn't really peg you as the type with service industry experience. No offense."

"That's because I don't have any," Harry says, his lips curling. He leans a little closer to her. "I'm just a people-person. I know what they want to hear, most of the time. And I'm a quick learner."

It strikes Allie as he speaks that he is, in fact, doing the elbow-lean thing. Only she can't say that she doesn't find it cute this time, because when Harry does it...

"Can I ask _you_ a question now?"

"Oh boy," Allie says, picking her drink back up. In the background, above the dark, rolling waves, the first of the fireworks start, just basic scattering sparklers, a warm-up for the big production.

"Were you _really_ going to go on the beach to watch these with a bunch of out-of-town guys with dairy breath?"

Allie can't help it; she laughs at the mental picture. "Fuck no," she says, honestly this time.

Harry grins and clinks his glass against hers. Above them, the fireworks begin to burst in earnest. 

  


**

  
On a random Wednesday, Allie's out at the sandbar that rises up to meet her feet a ways out from the beach, letting her ankles get buried deeper and deeper in as the water level slowly lifts up to her collarbones, then over her shoulders, then enough for the next wave to crash directly into her face if she doesn't duck down underwater in time, letting her hair flow every which way in the current. She's considering getting a surfboard or a paddle board or something, not because she wants to do either of those things, but because it might be easier to swim out on one of those. She'd be able to go further, past the breakers to where the waves no longer crest, and it would give her somewhere to sit or hold onto if she got tired. She could spend hours there.

Just as Allie decides it's stupid, there's some kind of commotion on the beach, people gasping and exclaiming, loud enough that she can hear from her spot in way out in the water. She turns around and people are pointing down the boardwalk, away from the bend towards the direction of 1st Ave. Some of them are even running; she blinks the saltwater glare from her eyes and pushes her wet hair out of her face to see.

There's a huge plume of billowing, black smoke all the way at the end of the boardwalk, in the direction of where the parlor is. Something's on fire. Allie's heart goes up somewhere near her throat, and she dives under the surf to start swimming back to shore.

She doesn't even bother gathering all her shit or drying herself off, just gets her phone out of her beach bag, pulls on the cotton shorts she brought along, and shoves her feet into her flip flops. People definitely stare as she patters down the boardwalk, figuring it's faster this way than running on the beach, especially while the sand is scorching. She's dripping still and her feet are caked with sand, but she doesn't care. She can smell the smoke now, like some kind of horrible augmentation of the beach bonfire scent, made caustic and eye-watering by the volume of the fire.

As she gets closer to where the boardwalk ends and where beachgrass starts to take over the sand, though, she can spot the small Boardwalk Ice Cream building, whole and decidedly not on fire, the plume of smoke somewhere behind it. The air is rent with sirens now as firetrucks and police cars arrive on the scene, but all Allie feels is an intense relief. She stops running and calls Helena, who picks up immediately.

"Are you at the shop right now? What the hell is burning down?"

"It's the complex with Shell Cafe and the smoothie bowl place," Helena answers. "Yeah, I'm at the parlor, but we had to close because the smoke was getting in and making the detectors go off."

"Oh my God, is anyone inside?"

“No, they all got out before it got too bad. They think it’s a gas leak or something.”

“Shit,” Allie curses. Shell Cafe was such a special little place. The family who runs it used to let her and Cassandra take free sample cake pops when they would frequent in their younger years. "Okay, I was on the beach, but I'm almost there now, are you outside?"

"Yeah, we're going to go around to the parking lot side, though. The smoke's really bad on the beach side."

Helena and Grizz are both there in the lot when she gets there, finally sort of dried off after walking in the sun the rest of the way, though her hair is still dripping down her bare back and soaking into the hem of her shorts.

"Jeez, did you literally come straight from the water?" Helena asks.

"I couldn't see from that far out, I thought the parlor was burning down," Allie explains, crossing her arms over her chest.

A small crowd forms within a few minutes as authorities rope off the scene and firefighters in full gear start working to get the flames down. Allie feels for them—it’s already a hot day, it must be unbearable for them. The entire beach side looks like the sand has come to life and is floating several grainy feet off the ground, so heavy and dirt-colored is the smog that surrounds the burning complex. Even from this distance, the heat is intensely palpable. They all stand and watch, murmuring among themselves, getting their phones out and recording what they can.

At some point, Harry appears next to her and Grizz. He's in trunks, with one of those button-up short sleeves thrown over his shoulders, looking slightly out of breath.

"Jesus," he says, surveying the scene. "I was up by the bend, at first I couldn't tell if it was the shop burning down or not."

"Yeah, you and Allie both," Helena says. She has a hand on her cross necklace.

Harry looks down at her and then Allie realizes she's sort of not wearing a shirt—just her red bikini top, and her hair's still all wet and probably a fucking mess from having run across the boardwalk. Harry's not staring or being rude, but she notices that other people kind of are, now that a crowd has formed, some of the guys milling around and even a few of the cops keeping a perimeter eyeing her for longer than strictly necessary.

Grizz seems to notice too, because he takes his muscle tee off and gives it to Allie, seemingly perfectly happy to go shirtless. It's a beach town, after all, so it's not completely out of the ordinary.

Allie thinks there’s obviously a stupid double standard there, but she’s appreciative nonetheless. "You're so sweet," she says as she slips it on, tucking the excess fabric into the damp waistband of her shorts. Next to her, Harry clears his throat. He sounds uncomfortable, or something, but Allie doesn't know what that's supposed to mean.

"Yeah, I'll come grab it next time I come around your place," Grizz says. He's referring to the occasional instances where he comes to pick up Sam from her apartment for their on-the-fly dates, since Sam is always either at hers or Becca's rather than his own place.

Harry, apparently, doesn't know that, because he thins his lips into a line and squints out at the burning complex.

After a while, it becomes clear that they're not going to be able to save the building at all. Someone overhears the firefighters talking and then the news gets passed around the crowd, and then too many people are there and cops start telling them to disperse and go home.

With the shop closed, they all just drift off; Allie has no idea where Harry, Helena, and Grizz go, but she goes back to grab her abandoned stuff from the beach. Then she walks to her apartment and immediately turns on the local news on her laptop, setting it on the closed toilet lid in her bathroom while she runs a bath so she can get rid of the sand and salt all over her body.

It's really, really sad. And scary, because it could have been them. It could have been Boardwalk Ice Cream. 

Shell Cafe hasn't been around for quite as long as the parlor, but it had its own charm, even if Allie hadn’t gone in years. But it was always there, the next stop down on their tiny little spot on the end of the boardwalk; after that it’s just tufts of reedy beachgrass and water that’s too rocky for anything other than looking at. And it’d been one of the places that makes their town so special, home to so many local, family-owned businesses against the ever-rising tide of overdevelopment and cookie-cutter chains. 

And then Allie thinks of the family who owned it, and the cake pops, and then dunks her entire head under the still bathwater, feeling heartbroken. 

  


**

  
It's Elle who first suggests the fundraiser.

The parlor re-opens two days later, after the fire department has finished gathering all the ashy debris into a massive pile that they fence off and the lingering smell of burning finally loses out to the saltwater. Allie and Helena are talking about it when Elle gets in, because it's all anyone's been talking about. Apparently Elle's parents are friends with the owners, and Elle used to do ballet with one of their daughters in elementary school, or something.

"I just wish we could do something, you know? That place was their life, and now it's just...gone," she says sadly.

"Won't they get insurance money or something? If it was a gas leak, then it wasn't anybody's fault," Helena says.

"Yeah, but that won't bring the Cafe back," Allie responds, still feeling torn up about it. It's the strangest thing, looking out to the left side of the glass entrance area and seeing a pile of sooty rubble, and the ocean past that, rather than the long-standing complex that housed the Cafe and the smoothie bowl place.

Elle says, "I wonder if Harry would let us do a charity fundraiser type thing. Like, we donate whatever we make that night to rebuilding efforts or just to help the family out, you know?"

"Wow, I love that," Helena tells her earnestly, and Elle ducks her head down to smile shyly, which Allie's never seen her do before.

The night crowd isn't as big as it usually is thanks to the fire, but a decent amount of people still show; about half of them take their ice cream out in the parking lot or around on the end of the boardwalk so they can marvel at the massive pile of charred debris. After closing, they go back to talking about the charity idea and are still discussing it when Harry comes to check on the parlor and report that they had a great third quarter thanks to the usual summer uptick or whatever else.

"What's this you're talking about? A fundraiser?"

"For Shell Cafe," Allie informs him. "For rebuilding efforts, and to help them with their loss, show a little support for our community."

She recalls Harry, that one night, telling her acidly that they _'weren't running a charity, here'_ and decides not to be flippant about it when he says it's a great idea and that they're definitely doing it. She's mostly glad that he understands the intrinsic value a place like Shell Cafe had, which is maybe a quality you can only get after being a kid and eating countless grilled cheeses at the Cafe in the middle of the day for beach lunch.

After Harry gets ahold of it and runs it up whatever flagpoles he does, it becomes this whole thing.

A bunch of other businesses and restaurants want to participate, and soon there's a Facebook event page dedicated to a week-long charity drive that will feature different local spots on each day, with a percentage of proceeds going towards cleaning up the debris and helping the Richardson family out and maybe even rebuilding or relocating the Cafe.

Boardwalk Ice Cream is kicking it off on a Sunday in two weeks, and Allie, Elle, and Helena spend a few of their morning off-hours stapling flyers all over the downtown corridor and handing out information to folks on the boardwalk. Sometimes Grizz comes to join them before his afternoon shift, and Allie's not trying to be vain or anything, but, like, they're a good looking group and they attract a fair amount of traction from the canvassing.

Harry comes exactly once and Allie can tell he gets bored of it very quickly, mostly because they're only posting flyers today rather than interacting with people; it's a weekday and the boardwalk foot traffic just isn't as high. 

He suggests that they go to the beach afterwards, all five of them, because apparently they're friends now and he says they deserve a nice break after the morning's work. Allie agrees only because she always goes after anyways, and it'll be easy to ditch them once they get there and she can just be in the water.

"You do not want to go to the beach with Allie," Helena says, snickering, even as they all go back to the shop to change and put the boxes of extra flyers away. "She's like, crazy obsessed. You can't even talk to her, she just zones out."

"Is that why you're so salty all the time?" Harry says, flicking the ends of her hair. "Like, literally, you smell like the ocean."

Allie makes a face, even though it's sort of true.

She waits for the rest of them while they change one at a time, because while most locals carry a suit with their stuff at all times, no one's quite wearing one permanently as she is. It's just a plain navy one with white stripes down the sides of the top and bottom today, nothing really flashy, could basically pass as a sports bra, but she thinks it looks good with the blonde of her hair.

Elle's the only other one who seems to be willing to go as far out as Allie normally does, which is a pleasant surprise. She's quiet and relaxed about it, too, just pleasantly enjoying the water. And she doesn't act silly about the waves like a lot of people do, screaming and trying to anticipate big ones. Allie observes her for a bit, notices that she has her front turned towards the shore rather than at the incoming waves—she's watching Helena, who's setting a volleyball back and forth with Grizz on the sand.

Allie doesn't know what it is with Helena and her coworkers, but as always, she'll keep her mouth shut on it, willing to let it play out by itself. Plus she has a much better feeling about this than she had Luke.

Since she's not paying attention to the waves, Elle almost eats it when a big one comes up behind them; Allie has to grab her by the wrist in the water and tell her to duck, pulling her under just in time so it doesn't crash on top of her head. Elle heads back to shore after that, having had her fill. That's fine by Allie; she judges the tide and the flow of the current, decides it's safe enough to float on her back for a while without getting her shit rocked by more big waves.

She heads back when her lips feel chapped enough to split, trying not to pay attention to the way she knows Harry's looking at her from his spot on the sand as she emerges from the tide. She's figured out, after having rejected him, that he's harmless about it and would probably stop if she were actually uncomfortable.

Allie spies Helena and Elle meandering off along the wet sand, letting the water rush up around their ankles with each incoming wave, and decides to leave them be. Harry's the only one remaining in their little cluster of towels, sitting up with a pair of aviators perched on his nose and scrolling lazily through his phone. That actually kind of annoys her, because who comes to the beach just to look at their phone?

He puts it down when she stretches out next to him, though, unfolding her limbs fully and languishing. If she doesn't have to leave right away, she always lets the sun dry her off rather than use the towel. The way she can work on her tan while she's at it, even though she thinks she's already maxed out on that for the summer. She doesn't anticipate getting much darker or more sun-freckled than she is now.

"Where's Grizz?" she asks.

"I think he spotted one of his surfer friends or something," Harry says. Allie squints around, trying to locate him, and then sees him leaning against the railing of the boardwalk by 4th Ave with Sam, who must have wandered into this territory from downtown for once. Allie has to suppress a snort at Harry calling _Sam_ one of Grizz's 'surfer friends.'

"Uh, no," she tells Harry, unable to hide the amusement from her voice, "that's my cousin. They're dating."

Behind his sunglasses, Harry's eyebrows go up. "Oh. I thought—so you and—nevermind. I'm stupid."

Allie knows what he's trying to say and, to her credit, doesn't laugh. "You are stupid," she says serenely, closing her eyes to soak up the sun and to indicate that she's done talking. She just doesn't _do_ talking on the beach.

After a few minutes, she can still feel Harry's eyes on her. She turns over so she's lying on her stomach, propped up by her elbows, lets her feet kick idly in the air and flips her hair over one shoulder. "What?"

He still has his sunglasses on, so it's hard to read exactly what he might be thinking. Or where his eyes are looking. But he laughs a little and then says, "Nothing. You're just hot," like it's a fact.

"Oh. Thanks," Allie replies. And she kind of loves how she looks in the summer, so she's not going to feel bad that that was her instinctive response. She pauses, and then adds, "You are, too."

And that's also a fact. One that she'd noticed right away the very first night they met, even through the dark of the bar and the shitty lighting, and one that she tried very hard to ignore when she was stuck on him being an asshole earlier in the summer. It's even harder to ignore now, when he's like this, all shirtless and golden with wet, messy hair, against the blue sky and the blue sea—in _her_ element.

They leave it at that, though, and she pillows her head on her wrists and closes her eyes again. 

  


**

  
A few days before the fundraiser is Becca's birthday. She throws a huge bash at Ocean's Tavern, for old time's sake, and Allie gets wasted, also for old time's sake, and she ends up making out with a random guy. For old time's sake.

But she wakes up the next day not with a hangover, but with a nasty summer cold and a throat infection, because apparently the random guy didn't have the fucking decency to stay _home_ instead of going out while he was sick. It knocks her out of commission for two days; she only leaves her house to go to the pharmacy and grab some canned soup and frozen food so she won't have to cook. Helena tells her not to worry as long as she's back on her feet in time for the charity event, and Allie tries to focus on getting well and not mourn for the fact that she can't go swimming and has to miss the Friday bonfire for the first time all summer.

The fundraiser falls on what turns out to be the hottest day of the year so far.

She's still feeling a little achy and malaised, but her sore throat is gone and she really wants to be there for this—and also because they literally need her. Thousands of people responded to the Facebook event, and they have no prediction for how many are going to show up just for the first night at Boardwalk Ice Cream. She texts Helena the night before that she'll definitely be there, and she can tell Helena wants to be nice and make sure that she's up for it, but is also relieved at the same time.

"Dry hair and socks for once," Harry remarks when she gets there in the morning. Allie guesses he's helping out again, like he did the night of the 4th.

"I dressed up just for you," she says sarcastically. Harry must like the sound of that; he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glint in a way that gives her a hint to where his mind goes. Allie slips her Boardwalk Ice Cream t-shirt on over her tank top, and his eyes follow the movement. She tries to ignore it.

People are lining up outside, waiting for them to unlock the doors. This is an all-hands-on-deck scenario, the whole staff is there, with Clark and Luke going into the crowd to take orders while Allie and Harry man the registers and everyone else is in the back, swirling cone after cone of the perfect soft serve.

As the morning blends into afternoon, Allie starts getting a little light in the head. The heat is oppressive, the kind of day where it's not only scorching, but humid and cloying as well. The volume of people in the parlor is making things worse, even though she has the cool blast from the walk-in freezer every so often when Helena or Jason get out more supplies. Maybe she's not fully recovered from being sick, because suddenly the lights are too bright, everything smells too sweet, the radio is too loud, and she can barely make out the man in front of her asking for a vanilla waffle cone with honey almond clusters and a drizzle of Nutella on top. There's also the fact that she hasn't thought to eat or drink anything since getting to the parlor.

She takes the order and then stumbles when she goes to put the receipt on the assembly line for someone from the back to take. Harry, in a flash, grabs her by the elbow and says, "Woah there. You good?" And then he takes one look at her face and is suddenly whisking her away, into the back, motioning for Helena and Elle to take over their spots at the register.

He guides her all the way through the back room, past the freezer and the shelves of extra supplies and bins of bananas, to the door that the staff uses to get in and out. It's hot as hell outside, but it's also free of noise and people, and he sits her down on the single concrete step below the door while he goes back in. She tries not to feel dizzy when he pushes her down by the shoulders, gentle but firm.

Harry reemerges seconds later with a bottle of water and two bananas. "Drink," he commands her, handing over the water.

Allie doesn't realize how thirsty she is until she starts, and then she's nearly chugged half the bottle when Harry tugs it out of her grip, spilling some over the mouth onto both of their hands. "Slow down, Jesus, or you're just gonna throw it all up in like a minute. Heatstroke’s like that."

She wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand, and then takes the banana he offers her. "Thanks. I'm usually the one doing this sort of thing for Helena."

He cracks a smile. "Yeah, she works way too hard. No idea how she does it."

"Honestly, you should just tell your mom to give this place to her," Allie jokes, feeling some of the life return to her after eating and drinking something. She’s not so dizzy anymore.

Harry laughs a little and sits down next to her, folding his hands. "She's super impressed with this fundraiser thing. Think I'm finally getting her to see the community value of this place."

Allie raises her eyebrows at him. "You? It was _our_ idea. Elle's, actually."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he says, even though she knows he'd had a significant hand in making it such a big, town-wide thing, not just their little shop throwing some dinky drive.

"Well anyway," she says after she's eaten the second banana and finished the water, at a normal pace this time. "Thanks for helping me. Even though I know it's just because you think I'm hot."

He does this half-scoff, half-laugh. "I didn't save you from getting heatstroke just because I wanna get in your pants, Allie."

She takes it in stride and shoves him on the shoulder as they go back inside, ready to face the masses once again. It's just Harry being Harry. 

  


**

  
It rains for five days straight the first week of August.

Allie is exceedingly pissed about it, because it means she can't go to the beach. Jellyfish season is going to start any day now, too. None of the super toxic ones appear too often this far north, but the water will teem with annoying little white-ish blobs soon that she'll have to wade through to get past the shallows. The only consolation is that bad weather means an almost dead ice cream parlor, since all their seating is outdoors. On the fifth day, Helena texts to tell her to not bother even coming in; she's closing the place early because there are no customers of which to speak.

She feels like she's going to go stir-crazy if she doesn't do something, so she jumps on the opportunity when Becca calls and suggests they go out tonight, downtown and away from the beach, drink away the boredom for a little while. Even though the last time she went out with Becca, she ended up bedridden for days, but Allie vows to be more careful this time. She's not going to make out with any strangers tonight.

"For old time's sake" on Becca's birthday really does seem to mean purely for old time's sake, though, because after a while, Allie's just not feeling it. There are too many people in this place, and it's gross from the humidity in the air due to all the rain and the music's too loud and she has to shove into different groups of people twice to avoid getting spilled on.

Becca passes her a neatly rolled joint and says that might get her to loosen up, but Allie has a better idea. "Why don't we get out of here and I can give you guys those free milkshakes now?"

Sam rolls his eyes, but Becca's eyes light up, her drunken self latching expeditiously onto the concept of milkshakes. Allie has to admit she could go for one herself; or better yet, her usual cherry dip cone. She hasn't tried to sneak one ever since Harry caught her, has been dutifully paying out of pocket every time the craving hits her.

They all seem to have forgotten it was raining, and they don't fit as a group of three under Sam's single umbrella. He doesn’t even bother opening it, saying he’ll commiserate with them in getting wet. It's not coming down as hard as it was during the day, though, just a light shower, made even cooler by the wind blowing in from the beach a mile or two away.

They pass by the local biergarten that overlooks the canal separating the town proper from the residential area where Allie lives. Someone calls out to them, and they turn to see Grizz, Luke, and Jason lounging at some of the outdoor chairs, protected from the rain by a clear awning lined with weather-proof string lights.

"That's my cue," Sam signs to them, and he departs from their little group to join Grizz and the others.

"So rude," Becca mutters, linking her arm with Allie's and continuing on. She makes sure to give Sam the finger behind her back as they head on, ignoring the guys' calls for them to join in. Allie just laughs, and leans her shoulder in against Becca, not hating the way that their skin is sort of sticking from the rain. She's never, ever minded getting a little wet.

"So," Becca says as they amble along. She's a heavier drinker than Allie, always has been, and tends to just say whatever when she gets like this. "When are you and Harry Bingham going to bone?"

Allie nearly chokes on her spit. "What?"

Becca gives her a look. "Come on. You two are always in each other's Instagram stories. At the parlor, or at the beach, or wherever. You _tag_ each other."

"I tag everyone," Allie frowns.

"Yeah, but he doesn't." She thinks and—surely that can't be true. And then she remembers the post Harry had made after the only time they went to the beach together, after putting up the fundraiser flyers. It was a picture of his point of view lying down on his towel, with the sand and the water and, in the edge of the photo, her blonde hair and the curve of her bare shoulder visible. He tagged her in that one, and she just liked it and moved on like a normal person.

"And then I didn't say it at the time, but there was some weird energy when you went up to him in The Chapel that one day," Becca continues. “You were basically up against each other.”

"The time I called him an asshole to his face, you mean?"

"Whichever way you wanna skin a cat."

"You're being crazy."

Becca smiles deviously. "Eat the rich, but also, like, _eat_ the rich, am I right?"

They're outside the street Becca lives on now, taking the in-town route to get to the parlor rather than go the straight shot from the boardwalk. Allie's about to make some kind of snarky comment, but then a car comes driving by and sends a shower of muddy rainwater directly onto Becca, who is standing closer to the road between the two of them on the sidewalk.

"What the _fuck!_ " she cries, throwing her arms up at the car, which doesn't pause or do anything other than drive away. She tells Allie that she's just going to go home now since they're right here anyway, they'll get the milkshakes another time. Allie insists she should come with to help, but Becca gives her a withering look and says it's fine, Allie should just go on, the mood of the night has been spoiled for her and there's no saving it now.

Reluctantly, Allie leaves Becca at the door of her apartment building. The rain has let up somewhat, and she ties her hair up into a ponytail away from her face as she gets back onto the main street. Then she decides—fuck it, she's already come all this way and there's nothing stopping her from going herself to get her ice cream before heading home.

She lets herself in and keeps the lights on low, makes herself a vanilla with cherry shell dip, in a cup this time so she can sit and take her time with it for a bit. And she still has the joint Becca gave her in her pocket, too, so she lights that up using one of the burners they have for warming up hot fudge and making bananas foster.

This is a nice night for it too, she thinks, as she takes her ice cream and weed outside, drags a chair and a wire table under the awning so she can sit out of the rain. She alternates for a bit between the two, having a bite of ice cream in between hits, leans her head back and watches the rain hitting the pavement.

Behind her, the door opens from the inside of the parlor and it's enough to startle her in her seat and get her to whip her head around, battling a sense of deja vu. When she sees it's Harry, she moves to try and stub the joint out, because—well, this is her place of work and he's the owner. But he laughs, says "C'mon, Allie," and goes over to her to snatch it out of her hands and steal a puff.

"You scared me," she says, picking up her ice cream cup again.

"I'm not even gonna ask if you paid for that," he says around the joint, dragging another chair under the awning next to her.

"I didn't," she informs him sweetly, and then eats a spoonful of the cherry-red coated ice cream. He laughs again, and then exhales smoke out the side of his mouth. Allie tries not to focus on how hot he looks doing that. "What are you doing here?"

"Was walking home from my mom's office, saw the light on and wanted to come check it out."

"What can I say? I had a craving."

"Yeah, I can see that," he says, handing the joint back to her. She looks at it, and then holds her ice cream cup out to him in offering. He looks amused at that, but humors her trade all the same. She tries not to notice the fact that he also looks hot eating ice cream from a little foam cup with a plastic spoon. She's just high, that's all. And she barely had anything to drink back at the bar, but might as well throw drunk in there as well, just for some plausible deniability. "Do you ever not have wet hair?" He plucks at the end of her ponytail, still soaked through with rain.

"I swear to God if you tell me I smell salty," she says, flicking a drop of rain from her fingers into his face.

"No," he says. "No, you're just. Like a mermaid or something."

"If only. That would be the dream.” She takes a drag and he eats ice cream and they both sigh, looking out at the rain falling around their little corner at the end of the boardwalk.

"You know," he says after a while, "I didn't want to do it at first, but I'm glad I got pushed into this whole thing. It's nice, doing the hands-on work."

"I'm glad too," she tells him, and she means it. The parlor's as good as it ever is—better, even, with the boost from the fundraiser and the team of suntanned, hot young people on staff. And most of that is Helena's work, but Harry's been taking a lot off of her plate as well, from what she’s told Allie. He makes the bulk orders now, and also sets pricing and does all the inventory sheets, which frankly, Allie can't believe Helena was doing all on her own beforehand.

"I kinda thought you hated me," he admits as they trade once again.

She gives him a strange look; surely they've hung out enough times now for him to know that she doesn't. "I don't. We just didn't make a very good first impression with each other."

"Well, no, I think we did. The second one was the bad one."

She makes an amused huff. Right. She doesn't know how she forgot about that. He's looking at her now in the way that he does, from beneath his lashes and he's doing the elbow-lean thing again, on the arm of his chair, one shoulder tilted up and towards her.

And then, suddenly, Allie's sick of pretending that she can just ignore or not be affected by this stuff. She is. She notices him, all the time, every flirty overture he makes, every time his eyes linger on her. She knows what he thinks of her, he’s made it abundantly clear from the start. But she's been carrying on like it's nothing, because...well, she _did_ really dislike him at first, but now she can't even think of a good reason for why she's acting like this. She thinks about what Becca said, earlier tonight.

And then she finds herself wetting her lips, leaning in towards him, tilting her head, because, well...it's what she wants. Has wanted, for some time now.

"Allie," he whispers, and she lets her eyes flutter shut. He smells like weed and cherries and rain, just like her. "Allie." 

It's not a whisper of tortured longing—he's genuinely trying to get her attention. She opens her eyes.

He's got this closed off, unsure look on his face, and then he ducks his head down, the classic move for someone trying to curve a kiss.

Immediately, she draws back and picks up her foam cup of ice cream again, just to busy her hands with something. It's fine. She's misread things. He was into her, but now he's not anymore, and all those signs were just...Harry being Harry. This is her fault for thinking she could jump into it and he'd automatically be willing.

"Sorry," she mutters, not knowing what else to say.

"No, it's—" he tries. But Allie feels like she can't be here, not right now. She stands abruptly from her chair, the metal scraping loudly against the pavement.

"I should get going," she says quickly. "It's pretty late. You can keep the rest of both of those." She nods her head at the cup of ice cream, half-eaten, and the joint in Harry's hands, now practically a roach. He stubs it out against the metal table.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" he asks, like things between them are normal, like she didn't just try to kiss him and get rejected. "I have an umbrella." She shakes her head and steps out into the rain, which is little more than a drizzle by now.

"It's okay. I don't mind getting wet." 

  


**

  
The following week, Allie texts Shoe and gets straight to the point, asks him if he wants to come over to her place. Surprisingly, he says yes—apparently she's not dating material for him, but she's good enough for this. And then she goes out again with just Becca, ditches her halfway through the night cause there's this sandy blond guy named Blake who offers to buy her a drink and she says yes, and then he asks if she wants to get out of there and she also says yes.

It’s…fine. Allie finds herself closing her eyes and imagining him with dark hair instead, and that’s better. She leaves right afterwards, goes home and runs a bath and sits with her head against the side of the tub.

She doesn't get very far into her tour before Becca tricks her, with the promise of bottomless mimosas and beignets, into agreeing to brunch downtown so she can corner Allie about it.

"What are you doing, Allie?"

Allie looks up from her brioche French toast. "I'm...putting syrup on my food. Do you want some?"

"No, I mean," Becca waves her hand up and down at Allie, "what are you _doing_ with this whole slutty Allie thing?"

"The what now?"

"I mean it in the best possible way. And as a friend!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Allie says as she begins cutting neat triangles out of her French toast. Becca tilts her head and gives her a look that says _'come the fuck on, girl.'_ Allie frowns. "I thought you were pro- this sort of thing."

"If this is really what you wanna do, then yes, of course. Power to the 'p,' you know that. But it's just not very typical you."

"That's not what you said last year."

"Last year you needed a little liberation! And it was once. Once is a nice little taste of the wild side, and then you move on with your life, which you did. But twice? That's a pattern."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"This is your reaction to heartbreak? Or maybe that's too extreme. Heartsick, then. This is what you do when a guy is fucking with your mind, basically."

That doesn't feel right to Allie, because _she's_ the one who broke up with Will last year, not the other way around. She just...changed so much of her identity to fit with his, and she didn't like that and afterwards did all that shit to try and "find herself" again or whatever the fuck. But she _was_ heartsick at having spent so much time with him, and then for losing someone that she really did love, for a while there, before she didn't anymore. So yeah, maybe that's right for last year.

But now? Because of Harry?

Even though she can’t quite articulate her feelings on that since it’s so fresh, the fact that her mind jumped to him in the first place speaks volumes. Though she doesn't want to say it out loud and prove Becca right. Becca seems to know anyway, sipping her mimosa and judging Allie with wise eyes from over the glass rim.

"I don't know what's going on with you and Harry—and don't even try to argue, because I know I'm right," she says, putting a hand up as soon as Allie opens her mouth, "but just let me know if you want me to punch him, and I will. In the meantime, Allie, this thing you do...I don't think it's gonna solve anything."

Allie knows Becca's giving her this whole speech and also calling her out because she cares. And she decides she's lucky to have a friend who's willing to point out truths that are hard to hear, but are for the best.

"Sorry for being so basic and straight," she says sheepishly, playing with a dollop of whipped cream on her fork.

"You should be," Becca says, and then steals a French toast triangle off Allie's plate. 

  


**

  
On her day off, Jason's band is playing at the Garage, the grungey bar on 5th Ave in between the Cuban restaurant and crepe truck. The local bands always need bodies in the room, so she goes because he's been doing her a solid by trading morning shifts and honestly, the band isn't bad. It's just not necessarily her scene, the whole underground vibe with dudes who drink craft-brews, but it's something to do. Something to take her mind off her weird Harry spiral.

Allie's avoiding him again, and she knows it. Only this time it's not because she thinks he's a dick and wants nothing to do with him—the opposite, in fact. And it's _weird_ , because she never gets cagey like this when it comes to guys or romance or whatever, normally just goes for it...but considering that going for it had exactly been her downfall... Also, Harry is on a whole other plane of hot that sort of mortifies her to even think about.

Jason's band, The Guard, is up next, so she pushes her way to the front of the crowd to watch and be supportive. Clark's in the band too, he's the bassist, but Allie kind of thinks he sucks. Whatever. Their lead singer is this girl named Bean who doesn't live in town but plays an amazing guitar and has a great voice and is probably half the reason the band sounds as good as they do, with Jason on the drums.

She cheers when they finish their set and Jason buys her a drink as a thanks for showing up. He gets a sly look on his face when they're leaning against the far wall to make room for the next band, but Jason's the type of guy who's severely lacking in the subtlety or finesse department, so when he asks her, "So what's going on between you and Harry?", it's actually more of a shout directly into her ear.

"God, why does everyone think that?" Allie shouts back at him; the other band has started playing, and it's loud in here.

Jason just laughs and clinks his bottle against hers, and then leaves her to go rejoin his bandmates and greet some other people. Allie moves away from the makeshift stage, back towards the entrance of the bar where it's not as loud and crowded, leans against one of the concrete pillars and looks out at the open doors at the blue night and the dark ocean horizon.

She has a feeling there's something he's not telling her, like she and Harry must be a common topic of discussion among the other staff at the parlor, which...she screws up her face. They're all going to be disappointed when they find out he rejected her. Oh God, what if they already know? What if Harry told everyone about her sloppy attempt?

She doesn't think he's the type, but the idea still makes her down the rest of her IPA quicker than she should, because she's not planning on getting another.

"You want another one of those?"

Allie turns around. It's Harry, of course, because he's spent all summer sneaking up on her. Why stop now?

"What are you doing here?" She doesn't necessarily want to see him, because now that she's finally _let_ herself feel what she's kind of been feeling since at least the night of the summer solstice, it makes her want to die how good he looks. All the time. Right now, holding a beer and with his dark curls falling over his forehead and wearing a white t-shirt that makes his tan look outrageous.

Harry gestures towards the band that's about to go on. "My friend's band, she invited me to come."

Allie squints—the lead singer is the long-haired, wide-eyed girl Becca was chatting up the night of the first bonfire. Allie knows for a fact that they've seen each other a couple times since then, too. That's a development she certainly hadn't been expecting. "I think your friend and one of my friends may be having a thing," she tells him.

"Oh yeah? Kelly didn't say anything to me." He drinks his beer, and Kelly's band begins to play. They're good, more of an indie sound compared to Jason's garage rock.

"I think it's new, I guess they're still in the beginning stages of things."

He looks down at her, and God, it's so easy to see how she'd misinterpreted that look. Her heart, against her permission, speeds up. For no reason. It's weird to be standing here, talking about the start of new relationships, even if they're referring to other people.

Because Allie's just not the type to leave things unsaid or undone, she opens her mouth. "Hey, listen—"

She starts speaking the exact same time as Harry says, "Allie, about the other night—"

They both stop. He's smiling, he thinks it's funny, but she's got this ball of anxiety sitting in her chest all of a sudden. She doesn't want to hear what he's about to say, doesn't want to be let down easy in a way she's sure will be totally charming and nice and will also totally break her.

"No, let me," she says, and he's still smiling. "I'm—sorry." This is, what, the third time she's apologized to Harry Bingham this summer? This is the first time she's really meant it, though. "That...was a mistake. I was all," she waves her hand around, "cloudy headed. Let's just be friends, okay? That's all I want. Just friends."

Friends. She can handle that.

Harry's stopped smiling now. He almost looks...well, Allie doesn't let herself take in his expression for too long, can't even bear to meet his eye while she talks, but he's more serious, drawing back from her slightly against the pillar. When had he even leaned in? 

"Okay, Allie," he says, quietly, and it’s a miracle she can even hear him when it’s loud like this all around them. "If that's what you want."

It's not. 

But she has to be okay with that. She gives him a thin smile and puts her empty beer bottle onto the end of the bar, looks back out the doors into the dark blue air. She thinks she'll go swimming tonight. 

  


**

  
Near the end of the month, one of Allie's favorite professors emails to tell her that her class has been unexpectedly put on the roster for the fall semester, and she wants to know if Allie would be interested in a TA position. Potentially leading to some spring research work and then, possibly, a clinical fellowship the next summer if the program gets its funding in the new year.

Allie says yes immediately. She's been on track to get her M.S. in counseling for ages now and this finally feels like a step in that direction. And then she realizes this means she'll have to quit her job at Boardwalk Ice Cream.

Maybe not entirely—maybe she could still work weekends, or something, even though realistically she knows that probably won't be feasible with the workload she'll have during the year. She doesn't know why she feels sad about leaving; it's just a minimum wage job she has to keep afloat. It was always meant to be temporary. But she loves it there, she really does, and she loves Helena and Elle and Grizz and even the morning boys.

But it's not like she won't still live in town year round, same as everyone else who works there. It's not like she can't drop by whenever she wants. She'll still be able to see all those people while they're still there, because this is a temporary thing for all of them, really. Except maybe Harry, and—well. She hasn't tried talking to him since the show at the Garage a few days ago, even though she said they should be friends. She just needs time to get fully over him and—this should help. Quitting.

Helena actually cries when Allie tells her in person. Not a full-out cry, but her eyes shine a little bit and she hugs Allie, which she never does, and tells her the shop's going to miss her but she's so proud of her for like, finding her thing finally, and it's going to be a pain in the ass finding a replacement.

"You found Elle," Allie reminds her. "And she might be better than me."

"Maybe. It's not the same," Helena sighs. "But at least I won't have to yell at anyone for getting saltwater in the orders now."

"I might still come around just to do that. And I can definitely drop in for weekend shifts. September's still pretty crazy as long as the weather's nice, y'know?"

Helena gives her a watery smile. "I'm not letting you do that." And then she says, "So what did Harry say?"

Allie's stomach does a little flip. "What? I haven't told him. I kind of thought you would do that."

Helena heaves this big, tired sigh. "I guess I can." She looks like she desperately wants to say something else, biting her lip.

"What?" Allie doesn't mean for it to come out as defensive, but that's how it sounds.

"I'm not saying anything," Helena says, putting her hands up. "You've stayed out of my business when it comes to this kind of stuff, which I greatly appreciated, so I'm just gonna return the favor."

Allie guesses that means she and Harry are being likened to Helena and Luke. Or Helena and Elle, though Allie's not too sure what's happening there. "People really keep making something out of nothing, there," she says sourly. "There's no 'business.'"

Helena rolls her eyes. "You're gonna cost me, like, two hundred bucks."

"I'm—what?"

"The betting pool around you guys is getting real big."

Allie's jaw drops open. A _pool._ That must have been what Jason wasn't telling her that night, and if the morning guys are in on it, that means the whole staff probably is.

"Nevermind," she says, "I'm glad I'm quitting." 

  


**

  
Before her grad school semester starts, Allie tries to spend one final day on the beach. Like, the whole entire day. She waits until the forecast tells her it's going to be the hottest of the week, likely the last for the summer. And there's always one random day in September where temperatures peak again and everyone flocks to the beach, but this is the last time it's reliably hot, _summer_ hot rather than random-nice-day hot.

Her last night at the shop was yesterday. All the staff showed up after closing to throw her this big thing, and Sam and Becca came to finally collect their free milkshakes, sans booze. She hugged everyone and laughed and cried and danced around to the classic rock station, missing them already. Harry was there too, but he was more reserved than usual, hanging back and watching rather than participating. They didn't get a chance to speak alone, because Becca and Sam whisked her away to go to The Chapel for a celebratory drink and pizza.

Allie tries to empty her mind of the way Harry had been looking at her then, all serious and withholding and entirely unlike himself. She has a feeling she's gone and ruined this, and now they can't even be friends because he feels too weird about it. About her. She wishes she didn't regret it all so much. From her place in the ocean, she can see the spot where they stood under the fireworks on the 4th of July, on the balcony at Kim's Lounge. Why couldn't she have tried to kiss him then? Was he still into her then? She can't even recall, because it'd always seemed that way, coming from him.

It's not quite sunset yet, but it's getting close; the days have been growing shorter and shorter, the last of the summer heat just barely clinging onto the air as Allie stands and lets the waves crash around her shoulders. She's one of the only people in the water, one of the only people on the beach, the crowds having dispersed this late in the season and this time of day.

She gets out of the water so she can dry and try to soak up the last of the sun before it starts going down. There's a figure waiting by her towel, sitting next to it. She recognizes Harry's silhouette, his hair blowing in the sea wind, his feet bare and in the sand. Her heart jumps somewhere into her throat.

"Hi," she says, sitting upright on her towel rather than stretching out. She'd feel weird doing that, now, unlike last time. She's wearing her red bikini, the same one she wore the day of the fire, arguably the best out of her massive collection of suits; she wanted to make use of it in case today was the real beach day for the year.

"Hey," he says softly. He still looks all pensive and reserved, his smirk gone. "We didn't get a chance to really talk yesterday, and I figured I'd find you here. Congratulations, by the way."

She wrings her hair out on the other side of the towel, wet splotches darkening the sand. "Thanks. I wish I could do both, you know I really do love the parlor."

"I know you do," he says, and it's all sincere and almost sad in a new way that makes her ache all the same. She gets that anxious, antsy feeling all over again, like she's going to open her mouth and speak her mind and ruin things. For the second time. Third. Fourth—whatever. She keeps her mouth shut. "Helena let slip there was a betting pool around us."

Well that does nothing to help her anxiety. "I heard. Crazy, right?" she says, trying to play it cool.

He just looks at her again. "Is it?"

She looks at him carefully, confused. "Meaning...?"

Harry exhales a dry laugh, runs a hand through his hair, leans back to brace himself on one hand. "I'm not really your boss anymore, so I guess I can finally tell you that you've been driving me nuts all summer."

Allie doesn't know what to say. What exactly does he mean, because...if it's what she thinks...but she's been wrong about this before. "You rejected me," she says carefully, "when I tried to kiss you."

"And then you told me you wanted to be 'just friends,' that night at the Garage."

"I said that _because_ you rejected me."

"I rejected you because—" he hesitates, trying to find the words. Allie has no idea where this is going. "I don't know. I didn't want a repeat of last year, I guess, which is what I thought might happen. You were...alone and high and I—wanted it to be more. Like. I wanted it to mean something."

“I wanted it to mean something too!” Allie says, maybe too forcefully. She tries to calm down, but her heart is percolating all over the place. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I tried, but then you got up and left!”

She puts her head in her hands, letting her wet hair fall in a curtain all around her face. "Oh my God," she moans through her fingers. "My God."

"...So," he says slowly, "I take it to mean you _don't_ want to be just friends. Because I don’t."

Allie can't help it. She picks her head up and brings a hand around to the back of his neck, kisses him before she can decide better of it, before he can reject her again. Harry laughs against her lips, surprised, pleased, and then kisses her back. Around them, seagulls cry and the tide rythmically washes in against the sand and he’s got a hand in her wet hair. She smiles into the kiss, marveling at how stupid they’ve been.

"You taste salty, too," he murmurs in between. "I always wondered about that."

She huffs, swings her legs up and over him so she's straddling his hips, getting her knees completely caked in sand since her skin is still wet from the sea. Gets his clothes all wet, too, but he doesn't seem to mind, he puts his hands on her hips, thumbs brushing against the little red bows tied off on either side of her suit bottoms. She doesn't even care that they're on a public beach doing this, everyone else can go fuck themselves.

"We got this so backwards," she says when they pull apart. He's lying back in the sand now, grains of it getting into his hair and down the back of his shirt. She doesn't think he's ever looked better. "We had sex the first night we met. And then I rejected you."

"Twice," he adds, thumbs still pressing at her hips.

"And _then_ , after rejecting you, I decided I liked you." He grins at that, her admittance out loud that yes, in fact, she likes Harry Bingham. "And then you rejected me. And then I accidentally rejected you, again. And now here we are."

"And now here we are," he echoes. "Pretty stupid."

"I thought I was losing it," Allie says, pushing her wet hair out of her face. "I thought I misread everything."

"How do you think _I_ felt?"

Allie leans down and presses her mouth to his again, cursing herself because they could have been doing this all summer. After a little, he pushes her back gently on the shoulder, still running with rivulets of seawater.

"As much as I'm enjoying this," he says, "I've been trying all summer to get you to go on a date with me. So if you don't mind, I kind of really want to do that."

Of course. That's Allie—always headfirst into things. Into the ocean, into her instincts. Even when they're wrong. But what Harry's suggesting doesn't sound so bad. And maybe she needs to learn to stop and listen, just for a while. She climbs off of him. They both desperately need showers now; he's about as covered in sand as she is, at this point.

"Yeah. Yes. I'd like that."

As they clean themselves up slightly and make their way up to the boardwalk—because obviously they're going on their date tonight, Allie’d insisted, they’ve waited too long and she doesn't want to lose any more time now that summer's basically over—a thought strikes her.

"I think Helena won the pool," she says to Harry. He laughs.

"I knew she was the smartest of them."

"Maybe we just shouldn't tell anyone. Keep it a secret, make all of them lose their money."

"Nah," he shakes his head. "She deserves it. And besides, I don't think I'd be able to keep it a secret. Already did a bad job of that all summer, and we weren't even together then."

Allie likes that implication—that they're together now. Even though they have yet to go on their first real date. She gets out her phone to text Helena the good news.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/05/09/dining/drinks/aperol-spritz.html) is the New York Times article allie references. it was such a hot button issue!
> 
> thanks for reading! ♡
> 
> [tumblr](https://dystopians.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/harrybinghams)


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